


a mansion where he dispensed starlight

by SamValentine



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1974), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: 1920s, Jazz Age, M/M, Old Sport, Period-Typical Homophobia, TW for the ending I suppose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamValentine/pseuds/SamValentine
Summary: At ten to four, Gatsby was with Nick in the little cottage; flowers for Daisy spilling from ornate vases on every table and shelf, her favorite tea brewed and ready, both men standing restless with their hands thrust deep into their pockets, shoulders taut.'She won't come—''Give her some time, Jay—''—and I'm not sure I want her to.'





	a mansion where he dispensed starlight

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a writing challenge, the prompt of which was 'moving house', and I took some liberties with the canon.
> 
> Title & headings taken from the novel.

 

**a mansion where he dispensed starlight**   
  
  
_one winter night_

'Are you sure you don't want to do this tomorrow, sir?' the real-estate developer asked just after he had stumbled over something in the dark. He couldn’t see a thing, only the brightly-colored suit of his client as a shape that reflected the waning moon’s light. It was late January, and it was freezing cold.

'I am quite certain,' this client replied. 'Come on.'

They trekked across the shore of West Egg, following the gentle curve northwards, when at a seemingly random point they stopped.

The developer’s client stared at the shore opposite of them, or at least faintly in that direction. It was impossible to tell where sea, land and sky began or ended.

But then! Something, a lamp, on East Egg lit up briefly, for no more than a second, and reflected off of the water, its light a ghostly green. The developer shivered.

'This will be the spot,' his client said.

'Are you sure, sir?' the developer stamped the earth with his feet. 'This close to the water is less than ideal, meaning we'll have to go deep for the foundation and—'

'I am sure.'

The developer sighed. Then he said, 'Alright. I'll get my men together here tomorrow morning, Mr Gatsby.'

 

_a decent stroke of work_

Gatsby never failed to show up each day to oversee the work on his house—his villa, his  _mansion_. He always came late in the afternoon, though, cane in his hand, hat on his head, and a smile if work was going well, and a frown if it was not. He showed up when the workers were wrapping up, around five o’clock, when the sun was already dropping in the west, behind the sturdy brick walls that hadn’t been there two weeks ago. He always declined a drive back to New York, where he was allegedly staying in an apartment at 158th Street.

He always said that the falling darkness gave him peace of mind, staring out over the water, to the luxurious homes on the shore of East Egg.

The workers didn’t ask any questions. Not with the exorbitant wages they were paid to have the job finished before the summer. Nothing shut a man up like a generous paycheck, especially if it were handed over by Gatsby, smiling his eternally reassuring smile.

 

_that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer_

‘It is my pleasure,’ the developer smiled, ‘to give you this.’ With those words, he handed over the keys.

It was a beautiful May Monday, already quite hot, but Gatsby looked cool and breezy in his pink suit. Not a drop of sweat was to be spotted on his brow. With a quirk of the mouth, he accepted the keys. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For all your work.’

‘Well,’ the developer said modestly, ‘the workmen did most of it, you see.'

‘Please ensure they all receive a bonus with my most personal thanks for their hard work,’ Gatsby said. ‘I’m not a man to underestimate how far hard work can get someone who is devoted.’

‘Of course, sir,’ the developer said after a pause. ‘Would you like me to show you around?’

‘I think I will manage, thank you.’

The developer briefly inclined his head. ‘If anything is not at all entirely to you wishes, you know where to find me, sir. Until that time, I wish you good luck with your new house.’

Gatsby nodded and watched the developer leave, trotting down the marble steps, across the gravel to the driveway, which could host at least ten cars, as per Gatsby’s instructions.

Gatsby squinted against the harsh, mid-day light. If the weather kept up, he could host a party this Saturday, maybe. Would that have been enough time to settle in? Or maybe it would be such a bold move – a party, after barely a week of living in his new house – that the news would spread across town like a wildfire. Well, that settled it.

He sighed and turned around, entering the mansion.

It was cool inside the large hall. Gatsby shut the front door behind him with a soft click, and took a long look. The last time he had seen this room it had been half covered in dust, the intricate mosaics on the floor hadn’t been laid down yet, and the paintings on the wall still had to be hung there. Now it was done. And it was almost perfect.

His footsteps echoed hollowly when he walked towards the spiral staircase, and he made his way up to his study, where he sank down deeply in the leather, padded chair that stood behind the desk. He twirled in the chair for a while, humorlessly, when he finally turned towards the window behind him. It provided an unobstructed view over the bay.

The green light was difficult to see in the stark daylight, but! there it was, ever present, ever taunting him with its proximity. He could just… stretch out his hand like  _that_ , and grasp it. But when he then looked at the palm of his hand, there was nothing there.

There was a soft cough at the door.

Gatsby sat up straight, turned the chair around, and forced his face to assume a somewhat more pleasant expression. ‘Yes?’ he told the man whom he believed was his property manager, and temporarily his personal assistant.

‘Mr Gatsby, sir, there are two matters I would briefly like to discuss with you.’

Gatsby motioned for him to go ahead.

‘First of all, sir, there’s the matter of the cottage on the property next to you.’

‘What of it?’ Gatsby asked.

‘The property is currently up for sale. Should you be able to afford it, sir, it might be an idea to buy it so you could raze that… eyesore… to the ground.’

Gatsby stood up and walked towards the north-facing window of his study, pulling the curtain aside. He could glimpse the cottage through some thick foliage, and recalled that he had seen it before. He’d thought it small, but charming. ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ he said, turning back towards his manager. ‘Let’s see who buys it. Keep me updated, will you?’

The man, Howard was his name, nodded once, precisely.

‘What’s the other matter you wanted to talk about?’

Howard smiled thinly. ‘What you’d like for lunch, sir.’

‘Oh, surprise me,’ Gatsby said, as he sat down on the edge of his desk. ‘Nothing too heavy though.’

The manager turned to leave, but Gatsby called him back. ‘Say, Howard… Do you think you could send out invitations to everyone in the neighborhood for a party on Saturday night?’

Howard visibly paled. ‘Invitations, yes. Party preparations… that would be more difficult.’

Gatsby tilted his head downwards a little, then looked at Howard intensely from under his brow. ‘But can you do it?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Howard coughed. ‘Just the West Egg neighbors?’

‘No,’ Gatsby said as he turned back towards the window that looked over the bay. ‘East Egg as well.’

He heard Howard shuffle out of the room.

Gatsby closed his eyes and sighed.

 

_five years of unwavering devotion_

Not once did Daisy Fay show up, not once during five years of summer parties and winter soirées. Of course, she’d be Daisy Buchanan now. With a clenched jaw did Gatsby read every newspaper article reporting Tom Buchanan’s victories at polo—and there were many.

And then, one evening, Howard told him who’d (finally) be moving into the cottage next-door: Nick Carraway, Howard said, a charming young man who worked at the Probity Trust in town, a bonds man he was, and, by the way, he was a cousin of Mrs Buchanan across the bay, wasn’t the world truly a small place?

Gatsby lowered his eyes and told Howard what a coincidence it was, indeed.

Then he walked towards the French windows of his luxurious dining room, with his hands in his pockets. He looked out over his swimming pool and stared into the distance, looking his destiny in the eyes, seeing the green light, forever blinking on the opposite shore.

 

_want to go with me, old sport?_

Gatsby was shrewd, however—you don’t amass a fortune out of nothing if you aren’t—and he soon realized he could use this Nick Carraway to get to Daisy.

So when his new neighbor was moving into his new home, Gatsby stood at the north-facing window of his study. To see what kind of person this Carraway was, you understand.

And he immediately liked the looks of him. A sensible man, he seemed. One with whom he could reason. One who would come to a party, when invited.

Carraway—Nick—indeed turned out to be pleasant company during the next party that Gatsby hosted. Jordan Baker had noticed this, as well. Although his attempts to reconnect with Daisy via Miss Baker had so far yielded no results, Gatsby had hopes for Nick Carraway. High hopes.

After that first party, and then some, Gatsby found himself inviting Nick over for the sheer pleasure of his company. Late one afternoon, on which they had planned to go into New York for drinks but decided against it—too hot—they were sitting in the shade on the veranda of Nick's little house. Both had a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarillo in the other.

After a lull in their conversation, Gatsby said, 'I don't think I ever asked you why you moved here.'

'No, I don't think you have,' replied Carraway.

'Say, old sport, don't tease me like that.'

Carraway laughed quietly. 'I wanted to get away from it all. There was some...' he hesitated. 'Nasty business with a… fellow. I had to leave. And I'd lived my entire life in the Midwest. I want to see new places, while I'm still young. And what place better than here,' he turned towards Gatsby with a smile on his face, 'so close to New York?' he continued.

'Quite right, old sport, quite right.'

'So, why did you move here? Business?'

'Something like that,' Gatsby said, rolling his cigarillo between his fingers, his mouth suddenly gone dry.

Carraway looked at him with some amusement lining his face. 'Don't tease me like that.'

Gatsby huffed, then sipped from his glass.

Then came out his story; Dan Cody, the boat, the army... Daisy Fay.

 

_can't repeat the past?_

At ten to four, Gatsby was with Nick in the little cottage; flowers for Daisy spilling from ornate vases on every table and shelf, her favorite tea brewed and ready, both men standing restless with their hands thrust deep into their pockets, shoulders taut.

'She won't come—'

'Give her some time, Jay—'

'—and I'm not sure I want her to.'

The shock on Nick's face was perhaps more upsetting to Gatsby than hearing himself speak this truth.

'Gatsby...' Nick said, laying a hand on Gatsby's shoulder. 'You've waited almost five years for her. What's suddenly changed?'

'I heard that someone new moved into town, old sport,' Gatsby said, and swallowed. 'Someone who lives up to Daisy.'

'You've never told me about her!' Nick called out, and squeezed Gatsby's shoulder. 'Who is she?'

'It's, ah... Someone who works at Probity Trust, actually. Someone who works with bonds.

Nick looked at him intently, but before he could say something, Gatsby leaned in and kissed him briefly, just a press of mouths.

Then it dawned on Gatsby the terrible consequences his action could have.

But then Nick kissed him back, and he realized he cared less about the consequences than he possibly should. In his head he had already constructed a life for them, together. And as neighbors no-one would suspect a thing if they were seen together often and—

Nick's thumb brushed his cheek.

And if anyone started to suspect anything they could always move. Then he hesitated. There was still Daisy—

A gasp from outside interrupted his thoughts, and their kiss. Daisy stood in the open door, her hands in front of her mouth.

'Daisy,' Gatsby started, stammering, 'this is... this is not... how I had imagined—'

But Daisy had already bolted.

 

In the end, Nick had reached an agreement with Daisy—or more specifically, Tom—not to report Gatsby and him. Still, it appeared word of mouth had got around, even though the Buchanans had left for a long, long trip to Europe.

After it got out, Nick Carraway had moved, for the same reason he had initially moved away from the Midwest—nasty business with a  _fellow_.

One afternoon, not long after Carraway had moved, Jay Gatsby was found at the bottom of his swimming pool. A gunshot to the head. Some newspapers headlined murder.

Others, suicide.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, criticism? I'd love it if you'd leave me a note below. Thank you for reading!


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